I walk just about every day. Now, before you dismiss me as some sort of exercise kook, let me explain: I only do this because 1) I have a Fitbit (or, a “shackle,” as I prefer to call it) that buzzes and grumbles and sends me reminders if I don’t get off my butt and walk around once an hour; and 2) It gives me something to do on my lunch break (my menu these days is so ridiculously limited, I try to avoid eating socially). Thus the walking. And I’ve learned a few things I’d like to share.

“Doctors” who say exercise is good for depression are giant, unapologetic liar-heads. There is nothing lonelier than walking the perimeter of a parking lot three times because you have nothing else to do at lunch.

You can enjoy the sights and sounds of nature while walking. Ha! Not at work you can’t, unless you work at a campground or nature preserve. I regularly see cigarette butts and discarded Dunkin’ cups, hear things like diesel engines revving and car horns honking, and smell things like the last spray of the skunk that was flattened on the escape road near my office. (Wait: that might actually qualify as nature. My bad.) Don’t get me wrong: sometimes Mother Nature does remind me of her power. I’ve been caught in sudden snow squalls, unexpected downpours, a giant swarm of parking-lot-dwelling mosquitoes . . . I can respect nature. But “enjoying” is a b-i-i-i-g stretch.

Walking will keep you young. Honestly, who thinks of this garbage? Nothing will remind you that you’re overdue for a physical, or a knee replacement, faster than a long walk. Did you forget that you have a bladder the size of a pea? One ten-minute walk will be enough to jog your memory--and have you jogging back inside.

Walking can lead to weight loss. Maybe this is true, if you walk more than three parking-lot laps a day. However, my shackle reminds me constantly that I’m not getting my heart rate up into the “fat-burning zone,” which leads me to suspect that my daily sojourns are pointless. But I have a full-time job, and am also an author, freelance editor, and a publisher. Sometimes I’m an artist, too. When the hell am I supposed to find the time to walk enough to lose weight? Who do you think is providing the roof over your head, you stupid Fitbit?

Walking helps improve many health conditions, including high blood pressure, stress, and insomnia. Let me tell you about yesterday’s parking-lot foray: my blood pressure shot up to aneurysm levels when I jumped into a snowbank to avoid the semi barreling my way. The snow, it turns out, was hiding the aforementioned flattened animal, and I stepped laces-deep into rotting skunk innards. And if you think I was able to sleep last night with that stink permeating the house (impressive, considering I left my shoes outside), think again. I’m going to have to wash my walls with tomato juice this weekend, which I must say is not going to do much for easing the stress in my life.

So with all of this evidence that walking is pointless, why keep doing it? Didn’t I already cover that? It gives me something to do, and it temporarily silences my shackle when I do it. However, next week I’m going to try a new approach to healthy living: reading a book on my lunch break and leaving the Fitbit at home.

I think it’ll do wonders for my blood pressure.

Here I am on my daily sojourn. Or, as I call it, "Portrait of a woman who is NOT enjoying a walk."

For the past couple of weeks, I’d been craving . . . something. I wasn’t sure what, but given that I’ve been living on grilled chicken, rice, Boost, and jelly beans, really, it could’ve been any other food in the universe. I think dieters can understand this best: when you’re told you can’t eat something, like, say, circus peanuts, you find yourself dreaming of cramming orange peanut-shaped marshmallows down your gullet, to the point where you can’t even close your mouth to chew, all the while pointing at an unopened bag of circus peanuts and announcing, “You’re next.” (Except in your dream, it comes out as “yump nft,” because of the full mouth and everything.)

Anyway, I wanted something. I just didn’t know what . . . until Friday night at the grocery store, when a dusty can of Mary Kitchen caught my eye. Suddenly, my unnamed craving had a name: I really, really wanted corned beef hash.

Now I haven’t had corned beef in ages, and have been steering clear of all red meat in general. I’m not trying to be some smugly superior skinny [w]itch here: I’ve been dealing with a chronic illness, and can’t digest most meats. My stomach knew I would have issues not only with the “beef” part of the canned corned beef hash, but also the 59% fat content of said corned beef hash (greasy foods are also a digestive nightmare these days). But my brain—nay, my soul—didn’t care. I needed corned beef hash. I bought the can.

I could hardly sleep from excitement. The next morning, I was up before six, can opener and frying pan ready. Hash! I sang the word as I turned on the burner. As I opened the can, my little hash-hash-hash-hash-haaaash song wavered. Good lord. I’d forgotten how much this stuff looked and smelled like dog food.

No worries. I just, uh, wouldn’t breathe too deeply as I cooked it.

I fried it up, ignoring the sputtering fat, and scooped a generous spatula-ful onto a plate. Hash! I was so hungry for it I barely managed to use a fork instead of my fingers (but I did. I’m not an animal). As the first mouthful settled on my tongue, searing my taste buds, I let the flavor sink in:

Salt. Well, more like heavily salted . . . dog food.

How could this be? I used to love corned beef hash! (Also of note here, back in my can-of-corned-beef-hash-a-day days, I was at least sixty pounds heavier. Coincidence? I was starting to suspect not.) But my brain could not deny the horrible truth before me: I may have lost my fondness for corned beef hash.

I ate four more forkfuls, just to be absolutely sure. No luck. Still salty and gross.

I wept as I dumped the rest of the hash outside for the coyotes (I like to support the local wildlife), then rushed to the bathroom as my stomach decided to move that food from consumption to expulsion without stopping to bother with digestion. I felt like I’d lost a little piece of my identity: I was no longer that young, maybe chubby, sure, but overall happy, girl who loved corned beef hash and . . . and . . .​. . . you know, I really could go for some circus peanuts.

Wednesday was a beautiful day. The sun was shining; temperatures reached the mid-fifties. I took a walk on my lunch break. It felt like spring was just around the corner.

But this is New England. On Thursday, Mother Nature pooped out a whole bunch of snow on the northeast United States.

Knowing the forecast the day before, I got permission from my boss to take home my work laptop in case I needed to work the next day remotely. It sounded like a grand idea. I somehow failed to realize that this would suck what little fun there was to be had from my snow day.

I woke up early, looked out the window at the whiteout, and emailed work to confirm I wouldn’t be in. Then I fired up my laptop to put in my eight hours.

I’m pretty big on following rules. My employer was going to get eight full hours of work no matter if the roof collapsed under the snow, by golly. I worked for two hours straight before breaking for a cup of coffee, running to the kitchen and back to take as little time as possible. It did not occur to me that had I actually been at work, I would’ve gotten a mug of java within the first fifteen minutes of arriving, and I certainly wouldn’t have broken into a jog to get to the Keurig. I’d promised to work even if I wasn’t at work, and I was going to prove my boss’s trust was worth it.

I had to stop around noon—not for lunch, but because I needed the bathroom so badly that had I sneezed, I would’ve wet myself. I grabbed a slice of bread for sustenance on the way back to the computer. My phone kept buzzing with texts and calls from friends, so I turned it off. I became acutely aware that while I’d been fortunate enough to be allowed to work from home, everyone else in the world was having a bona fide snow day: a time to bake cookies, eat junk food, and watch trash television. My friends and family were having a grand old time while I worried about justifying even thirty seconds for a potty break.

I finally finished up and powered down the work computer. Whew! My stomach was grumbling, my back hurt from my chair, and I could finally answer some texts. After a full thirteen seconds of relaxing, Jason announced the snow blower had died—could I help him shovel?

We had a good chunk of the driveway cleared by 9:00 PM. I could get my car out in the morning, at least.

The next day, I headed to work, only to find that my town will once again not be winning an award for spectacular snowplowing anytime soon. It took me almost a half hour to get from my house to the main light in town, a trip that normally takes me four minutes—six in heavy traffic. The roads were . . . un-passable.

The tears welled in my eyes as I turned around to head home. I was looking at a second day of working from home, and to be honest, I hadn’t enjoyed it all that much yesterday.

Sometimes I write fanciful blog posts about family members when a special occasion comes about: Mother’s Day, an anniversary, a birthday . . . in the past, I’ve limited this to just my immediate blood relations. But my brother-in-law had a birthday this week, and I realized: Tim’s been married into this family for close to twenty years. I think he’s fair game now.

When Tim and my sister first started dating, he was a bit preppy, loved to golf, and had a stellar Catholic-school upbringing. He was a young, naïve man from West Hartford who had probably never expected to see a meat grinder in person in his lifetime, much less date someone whose father had one in the basement. (To his credit, he did not run away screaming when my father first eagerly demonstrated this flesh-grinding apparatus.) Tim’s first meal with the Longos is now part of family legend: Dad gave him a tour of the farm, and encouraged Tim to “talk” to a large boar named Romeo who was napping in the barn. As Dad snorted at the pig and egged Tim on to do the same, I thought, It was nice knowing this guy. When we returned to the house and Mom served spaghetti and homemade pork sausage, Dad speculating on which one of Romeo’s former girlfriends now sat on our plates, I was sure Kim would be single again soon. But even as Dad snatched a pesky hornet that’d found its way into the house out of the air and smashed it against the table without missing a beat, Tim just smiled. Wow. He must really like my sister, I decided. And as it turns out, he did.

Over the years, I’ve watched Tim change from that Springsteen-loving, “I’d love a tie for Christmas!” guy to a Springsteen-loving hunter who smokes his own meats. (The women in my family especially can’t stand The Boss, but I guess Tim gets to hold on to some piece of his former identity.) He regularly fishes with my father, and yes, has helped out stuffing sausage casings. He’s an avid reader and doesn’t miss any of the boys’ baseball, basketball, and Gaelic football games (most of the time, Tim’s the coach). He’s a pretty good guy. I’m happy to report that he not only doesn’t take offense to my dark sense of humor, but can crack some pretty twisted jokes of his own. Most importantly, he’s been wonderful to my sister and their boys, and I consider him more “brother” than “brother-in-law.”

When I called Tim the other day to sing “Happy Birthday” at him (another Longo family tradition, which is unfortunate, because most of us can’t carry a tune) he happily reported that my sister had gotten him the coolest gift this year: a five-drawer tool chest.

I’m not sure how it happened. I swear Tim used to wear cardigan sweaters and believed in things like dry cleaning and monogrammed golf club bags. Yet somehow, my sister saw through his disguise, and managed to marry our father.

Happy birthday, Tim!

Due to the nature of Tim's job, I didn't want to use a real picture of him. So I drew this portrait of him and my sister. You're welcome.